Aden, Abducted
Setting:
Marshank: East Walltop
From your perch on the walltop you command an excellent view of Marshank and the surrounding area. To the north is sandy shore, with cliffs in the distance. To the west stretches a great expanse of swampy marshes. To the south are
lush hills, covered in green vegetation. To the east, the sea sparkles as its waves lap gently against the rocks on the shore. And below, inside the fortress, the familiar death scene in the courtyard.
Characters:
Rattlecap, Marshank guard (provided by Magramba)
Aden, an acrobat
Magramba, a warrior
For context:
---
Up on the eastern walltop of Marshank stand a pair of long poles outstretched towards the sky. A chain has been fastened to the top of each, dangling down in the middle and tipped with cuffs. It is to these cuffs that the vermin captors have shackled Aden, mostly content just to leave her to shiver in the cold or be pecked to death by a passing gull. This morning, however, finds a ferret, the sentry for the walltops, apparently, wandering over to the squirrel. He's a thin, scrawny hob, with an oversized helmet and spear, and his chainmail jingles and rattles as he walks towards her. "Hey you!" The blunt end of his spear pokes out at her, prodding her in the side. "Wakey wakey, it's daaaay-breaky." Sniggering laughter comes trumpeting out of his face, revealing his discolored teeth. "C'mon, then, I know y' ain't cozy."
It takes several hours for the silver squirrel to drag herself through the sludge of unconsciousness, and when she finally /does/ wake up, she comes to in blinks and sputters. Phasing in and out, realizing only vaguely that she isn't dead. There's the distinct feeling of falling; of crashing through muddy clouds of half-wakefulness - and then there's light, and a dull pain throbbing through the back of her skull - and her /arm/! /THAT/ smarts something fierce. Something is insistenly jabbing at her side, and she groans, trying to swat it away. "Nu..." She mutters, trying again to swat at it. "Whazza-th'...stoppit..." Blearily, her eyes flutter open, squinting almost immediately shut again as the daylight accosts them. The ferret comes, slowly, into focus and she groans again - her /head/ holy cow. "'Ello beautiful..." She finally manages, her tongue stumbling, heavily, over the words.
"Oh, you should see /y'rself,/" the ferret fires back, chuckling dryly as he circles around in front of the squirrel. The walltop is wide, and the posts are fixed directly in the middle of the thing. "Y're a sight fer sore eyes, an' make no mistake. An' by that I mean ya look pretty bad," he explains flatly at the end. Either he's not clever, he suspects Aden isn't, or both.
Aden, spread atop the wall top like a macabre 'Welcome Home' banner, continues to struggle the world into sharper focus. "Y'...didn't have t'go through somuchtrouble..." She bumbles, ignoring his insults as she squints up at the her wrists, then down to her feet - a smirk fighting its way through the haze. "It's not even my birthday." Even tied, aggressively spread eagle, to a wall top, awaiting a fate by gull, dehydration, or worse - she finds her jokes funnier than anyone else. Whatever gets her through the day. "Buyagirla- a drink first." She blinks, hard, trying (and failing) to convince this headache to leave her alone. "Thought you blighters wanted me f'...f'mypelt or...or something." Her words taste thick and awkward in her mouth.
"Ain't no reason we can't 'ave a bit of fun first!" the ferret pipes up helpfully, holding up a corrective finger with a cheery, menacing grin. "Rogir ain't a spoilsport, that's why we likes 'im. Lets us have our fun, he does." The sentry reaches for a gourd of water hanging on his belt, pulling the stem-piece free and taking a sip, giving Aden a meaningful look as he does so. "Yer friends're dead, y' know."
"Rogir can jus' go'n...'n crawl back into th'arsehole he stumbled out of..." The squirrel mutters blearily, angrily. She goes to continue - but freezes, her muzzle hanging half open. She stares at the ferret, and can feel the pressure building in her chest. He's lying. Her stomach is slipping straight through the floor - she's falling. It feels like her heart may burst into a thousand pieces or simply stop all together. He's /lying/. "You're lying." She growls, dangerously - the shock of his statement dragging the world into sharper relief. "You're /lying/!" The last thing she remembers: Mag, struggling, fighting, surrounded...Flicktail nowhere to be seen. "You're lying..." It squeaks out as a whisper, a weak, despairing utterance.
"Nope!" The ferret gives her his warmest, off-color smile, leaning back against a rampart casually, his helmet sliding back oh his head. "Dead as dead, they are, we done seen to that, all right." He props his spear against the wall as well, rubbing his paws together with some measure of satisfaction. "Nice swords, both of 'em. I think ol' Rogir took the big one, an' they's drawin' lots for the squirrel's tonight."
The cliches of loss abound, and somewhere the performer would have been aware of this - but her grief is dragging her down - she's drowning in it. She can't /breathe/. She gathers whatever moisture she can at the back of her dry, hoarse throat, and spits at the ferret. It takes a lot for her to lose her cool - she has always prided herself on her ability to stay emotionally afloat - if only for appearances - through anything. But she has very little grip on herself now. "I /know/ you're...I don't believe y-" A wave of nausea hits her, the concussion washing over her. Swishing back and forth between her ears. She slumps in the binds, her chin falling to her chest, and she is silent a long time. When she raises it again, a cool, hard gaze locks onto the ferret. "And where is /my/ sword?" The question is soft, almost conversational.
The mechanisms of grief at play largely go unnoticed by the ferret, though he does cackle gleefully when she spits at him, as he's clearly agitating her. "Now now, don't get yer tail in a bind," he chides, wiping the spittle from his tunic and smearing it on the dusty rampart. "Yer sword's down in the armory where it belongs. Bit small fer most of us, ain't no one clamorin' ta get it," he explains, smacking her with the insult in the same conversational tone. "Maybe Rogir'll use it t'skin ya! That'd be almos' poetic, eh?"
"An' maybe I'll use it t'make me a nice ferret-kebob. I'll shove it down y'throat and then lift you up an' wave you around - all upside down and... and inside out." There's a manic glint breaking, violently, in her stare. "Lemme see it, then. These /swords/ you s- stole." She winces, the blood pumping through her sore head. "Because I don't believe you 'ave /squat/."
"You think they let me get th' fancy loot?" The ferret sneers widely at the squirrel, hawking a big loogey to cast at her feet. "Dumber'n ya look," he comments off the cuff. "Ol' Rogir an' the rest of 'em, they ain't got much respect for Rattlecap." The way his too-big helmet shifts around suggests how he got the name.
Now /this/. This is a game that she can play. "Well that doesn't seem fair." Aden pouts, trying to convince herself of the lie. Seeing is believing - and she ain't seeing any proof. Mag is made of tougher stuff than that, right? Still...The desperate way he was trying to...No. She growls, low in her throat - to herself, more than the ferret. Not dead. "Why don't they respect'cha? You're up here, workin' yourself t'the bone. Just doesn't seem fair t'me, but, what do I know? I'm just some silly circus beast." She tries to shrug, a move which only serves to further inflame the gash on her bicep. OUCH.
"Jus' how dumb ya think I am, then?" Rattlecap wonders, rubbing the back of his knuckles off on his tunic. The chainmail he's wearing only covers patches of him, leaving a lot of ordinary fabric free to the air. "Think y're th' first prisoner we've had up here tries t' bat her eyelashes at this ol' boy?" His wheezing laugh is /so/ attractive it beggars belief. "Well y're not." His paw falls on the haft of his spear, moving to prod her with it again. "Even if /they/ ain't got much respect, I c'n sure as Hellsgates make /you/ give it t'me. So watch yer tongue!"
Aden laughs. "Fine, then. I respect that." Different approach. Despite the ache stabbing its way through the back of her head, she sucks in a deep breath and /howls/. It's a long, operatic note - and while the squirrel does, actually, have a halfway-decent singing voice; this is is the dry, cracked bellow of desperation and annoyance. She is going to, badly, opera this ferret into submission if it kills her. "AAAAAAAND IIIIIIIIIIII -" her eyes squeeze shut - this plan is backfiring. Smashing and rattling things loose in her head that she would rather remain un-rattled.
"You /are/ dumber'n you look," Rattlecap grimaces, pulling a billyclub from his belt and giving her a quick whap upside the head. "Can it, 'fore ya bring th' gulls down on ya!" The ferret gives her a second to see if she'll shut up before he beans her on the bonce again. "/Stupid/ squirrel."
"WIIIIIL ALW-" Her caterwauling is abruptly cut off, becoming a yelp of pain. Stars erupt throughout her vision - as if it wasn't bad enough inside her head, already. She spits at the ferret, again, as the tears well up in the corners of her eyes. The world tilts, listelessly, from side to side as her head grapples with the repeated traumas. She can't wipe the tears away, so several streak her cheeks in a darker grey. That /hurt/. "Why don't you jus' /bite me/ you sad excuse for a rag'a fur. No wonder y'stuck on wall duty, y'too bloody useless for anythin' else. Can't even /raid/ proper, I bet, you sniveling, slobbering, yellow-toothed, excuse for a knot of /skin/. Bet they put you up here just to get /rid/ of you." She spits, /again/, panic and rage starting to take hold of her in the helplessness of her situation. And through it all, images of Mag and Flick mingled, in the back of her mind, with her guard's teasing voice repeating 'dead, dead, dead'. She tries to lunge, but only jangles herself uselessly, causing herself more pain than anything. They had to have gotten away. /He/ got away.
The ferret grins to himself as her insults come pouring out, pleasantly surprised by the ease at which he's upset her. "Jus' cause yer friends're dead don't mean you gotta be uncivil," he chides, poking her sharply in the belly with the end of his billyclub. "It ain't a good look on ya, ya dumb squirrel." Taking another gloatingly obvious swig from his gourd, Rattlecap wanders off towards the other side of the fort, apparently bored with her for the time being. "I'll be back, don't cry," he teases over his shoulder as he rounds the corner to the southern wall.
Aden lunges again, her muzzle snapping shut, with a jarring rattle, as she strives to sink her teeth into him - but he's too far away, and she is just left to snap and snarl at thin air. "Stop /saying/ that, you bloody liar." She growls, chest rising and falling in hard gasps. She struggles and wiggles against the bonds - she knows it's useless, but it gives her something to focus on. Not the image of a bloody squirrel, his sword hanging from limp, lifeless paws... The growl builds from her gut and breaks into a short, harsh sob. It isn't true. He's lying to get under her skin. That's what they /do/. And she just keeps going back to that same flash - just before the world was plunged into darkness - the three of them, separated, desperately fighting a losing battle. A /losing/ battle. She slumps, watching the ferret saunter further away down the wall. She tastes the salt of her own tears, and her brow furrows. She can't. Aden Skipaw doesn't cry. There's a deep breath as she steadies herself, trying to force her muddled mind into rationality. She tugs at the chains some more, testing them, testing the poles, testing herself. There is a way out, there /has/ to be a way out.
The shore lapses into ambient silence as Rattlecap makes his way to the opposite end of the fortress, dragging his spear and club along with him. The occasional cry of a gull circling overhead breaks the repetitive crashing of the waves on the shore, but not in a way that would offer any sort of consolation.
This silence is even harder on the squirrel: she cannot distract her mind from the inevitable realizations. It makes more sense for the warriors to have met their ends, crumpled, bleeding, and alone, on the forest floor - she's only here because she's...No, let's not think about /that/ unpleasant future. She isn't looking forward to spending eternity as a loin cloth. After a few minutes, the squirrel ceases the useless tugging and rattling of her binds, and, instead, stares out at the shore. They're dead. It hits her, not all at once, but rather like the waves that eat away at the shore line - a growing understanding which comes and goes, crashing against her psyche with increasing intensity until she's pulled under, unable to escape the currents. Dragged down, tossed and battered among her own helplessness and loss. It's all over. They came this far - and she couldn't protect him. Couldn't protect /any/ of them. She laughs out loud, a harsh, ironic bark, as she thinks back to Flicktail, naming her 'Champion's Shield'. Some shield. Her head lolls to the side, burying her eyes against the curve of her own shoulder. She can't stop the sobs now, racking her body, shaking free of her. Every fiber of her musculature curls inwards, wringing the grief out of her - it's all her fault. "I'm sorry." She gasps, shocked by the /pain/ of it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm /sorry/."
The east wall faces the sea, with the fortress set almost against it, and it is this wall that Aden is strung up atop. There's no approach for foes to sneak up on the walls by foot, as the land has been cleared back of any trees or meaningful vegetation. And so it is that a small, almost imperceptible dark shape moves gradually closer to the shoreline through the water, the outline of a head with two pointed ears, easily mistaken as a malnourished coconut or something similar just bobbing its way along from warmer climes.
This is a mistake that Aden would have made, had she turned to look out upon the shore. She has picked herself up and trudged onwards through many ordeals, many losses, many heartbreaks. But this...isn't going to be one of those. She is done. Defeated. A breeze rocks the silver squirrel, letting her sway, uselessly, between the posts; her cheeks etched into a salty scalariform of damp, iron-colored fur. It mingles, a harsh contrast, against the lighter sheen of her usual pelt. The quest was for naught: Noonvale will not rise, the beasts trapped back at the fort will surely perish, she couldn't protect the Champion of Redwall, and Magramba... A fresh wave of tears accompanies the rolling tide of her misguided grief.
The misshapen coconut drifts steadily closer, its rusty hue a bit odd among the tree-born bowling balls, but no matter. The fur on it is certainly shorter and finer than most coconuts as well, and those protrusions... why, they're almost like ears. In fact, it's a head. Magramba's head. The squirrel's head is floating in the waves, moving in towards the shore.
Awash in the crazed current of her own grief and loss, the squirrel finally casts a listless glance towards the ocean. At least she has a nice view - and the gulls, circling above her, earn a snort of laughter. Of course. It can be her own, little rebellion - he can't wear her hide if it's torn apart by birds. Maybe it'll even end quickly. Something else, though, catches her attention...The misshapen object bobbing closer to the shore. So, of course, now she's going crazy. "C'mon, loves, I ain't got all day." She growls to the feathered assailants above.
As Magramba's head floats closer, its features grow more clear, and his eyes and general expression become visible. He looks fairly angry, as usual, with a blend of determination tossed in. A vague pink hue feathers in the water near his hip, which is visible as a dark shape below the surface. He doesn't call her name, though, probably because she's in a fortress filled with evil vermin.
Aden peers at the approaching figure...And her mouth drops open. "M-" She stops herself, swallowing the urge to call out - mostly because of the fortress filled with vermin, and in part because she isn't /quite/ convinced that she isn't losing it, yet. Her gaze flicks, nervously, to the guard before descending back towards the figure. The squirrel tries to draw herself higher up, but can only do so as far as the binds at her feet will allow - and it isn't far. She is loathe to allow herself to give in to the sheer weight of the /relief/; she isn't going to let herself have any hope, here - the looming possibility of madness, considered. However, it starts to burn its way through her core, despite her misgivings.
Down in the water, Magramba's figure stops getting closer, as it seems he's found an outcropping or underwater rock to steady himself, head and shoulders out of the water despite being a fair distance out from the shore. He points a finger at her, strung between the posts, then makes a circle with his index and thumb, forming the 'okay' sign questioningly.
It /is/! The squirrel can't contain the strangled sob as the relief floods her. It dissolves into a teary gasp of laughter, and she nods. Oh she of little faith. Allowing herself to slump, she takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself. She was at the brink, staring into a darkness that she didn't know rested somewhere within her, teetering over the edge - it's hard to be brought back so suddenly, and she needs a minute. He's okay. However, this communication is limited, so she looks back up - and nods again. Her paws, balled into fists in those manacles, mimic the motions - an awkward, twisted point, then the 'ok'. Her other paw forms a similar shape - thumb and forefinger pressed together, but they brush off each other rapidly - flicking. She flicks again, and tilts her head.
What is she doing? Oh, flicking. Flicktail. Magramba shoulders move up and down, but he's not sure how visible that is so he raises both paws out of the water to emphasize the shrug. He didn't see what happened to the fox. For all they know, he's soaking it up in a hot tub with his newest soulmate.
Aden nods again, a nag of worry leaking back into her brain. /But/ if Mag is alive - then she can rest assured that the vermin was lying. Flicktail is still out there, too. She spends a moment in visual silence, trying to translate her questions, concerns, and /overwhelming/ relief into a language he can see. She just points at him, and nods. Him. You. He's there. He's /alive/. And she smiles. She starts to attempt something else, after a pause, and points to herself, then to him...Then stops. This is a much more difficult form of communication than initially meets the eye. She waves her paw - never mind. Disregard.
This is not ideal. Magramba points to himself, then points to her, then points away from the fort. He's got that angry/determined look going still, and he caps it off with an emphatic nod. Then a large circle around the whole fort, and he pulls his thumb over his throat. Dead.
Aden can't hide the grin, and roughly shoves her face against her arm, again - she isn't crying, don't look at her. His message, though: /that/ she understands. She points to Mag, makes a fist, and nods. Give 'em hell. There's another pause - she just stares at him. Standing there. /Alive/. Hesitatingly, she points at herself, then gestures more specifically at her head, then to him - and then she sticks her tongue out, letting her head loll sideways. Dead. She thought he was dead. Her tail, twitching behind her, raises a thought - that may be easier. They're squirrels, for pete's sake. She repeats the gestures, using her tail as a pointer this time, which does bring /some/ clarity to the point.
Is she just sticking her tongue out at him? What's the head lolling around? I, you, tongue. Typical Aden. Magramba just nods because he has come to expect that sort of behavior from her, so he nods and stares frustratedly up at her spot on the wall. There's still no indication of how he's going to get inside to wreak havoc, only the silent promise that he will.
Maybe she's sending him Freudian slips via paw signals? Oops. She tries again - points at herself, taps her head - makes, what she hopes to be, a thoughtful expression, tilting her head dramatically, then points at Mag - then 'dead'. She slumps, this time. DEAD. His resolve, though, earns a fond smile, and her expression softens. She just nods - really the most concrete motion she's capable of. She knows. Don't worry. She points between them, makes another fist - they've got this...Somehow. Aden casts a nervous glance to the guard, who appears to be heading back around, and shoo's at Mag. Go. Hide. She points at herself, and then makes the 'ok' sign. She'll be fine. She nods. Juuuuust fine - what could possibly go wrong?
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